Into the Inferno
by The True Enygma
Summary: An old-time inmate and firebug at Arkham Asylum, Carly Fisher, meets two of the most intimidating criminals in the city: the Joker and the Scarecrow. No cheesy-sappy romance here, folks.
1. A Bet

Alternate Titles: New Friends

Written: September, 2008

Comments: SO IT BEGINS.

-fanfare-

Seriously, folks, I might actually finish this one. Let's just keep our fingers crossed and we'll see how it goes, neh? Eh.

"Five bucks if you go talk to 'em."

"Make it twenty-five, and give it to me now."

Carly kicked her chair back and rested her white shoes on the table with a grin. The inmate across from her watched her feet for a moment, then shrugged and dug some money out of his pocket. "Your funeral," he told her as she tucked the bills into her sock, the only place the guards wouldn't _ever_ look, and glanced over at the other end of the rec room. "You could use it for surgery, y'know." She looked back at him, and he smiled and yanked his index finger from the corner of his mouth to his ear as if to warn her of what was to come. She scowled.

The room had, since about three days ago, been divided in two. One half was made up of terrified inmates who all sat as close to the wall as they could. The guards stood at the card-access door, always watching, always waiting for something awful to happen.

On the other half sat two men, chatting every now and then, shooting glances across the room that sent the men and women there into spasms of panic.

That was because everyone in Arkham Asylum knew who these two were. Carly watched them with an appraising eye. Dr. Jonathan Crane, better known as the Scarecrow, picked meticulously at his nails as the Joker chatted disjointedly with him, pausing every few words to moisten the scars at the edges of his mouth.

She sighed and looked back at the man she'd bet with. "See you in a few," she told him with a half-grin. He jerked nervously when she stood up, and smiled nastily again.

"Yeah, right."

Carly couldn't understand for the life of her why Scary and Clownface were so goddamn terrifying. The asylum was watched twenty-four-seven by tons of guards, who she'd learned from experience were built like pit bulls on steroids. Besides, if either of the guys actually managed to _do_ something, it wouldn't matter. Some gruesome death at the hands of a murdering psycho was probably better than hanging around _this_ dump forever.

She grabbed her chair and dragged it across the room with a loud, drawn-out squeal; all other noise ceased besides the Joker's chatting. Then she dropped it haphazardly in front of the two and thumped into it. All was silent for a moment.

"Hey."

Crane turned his eyes on her with a detached, disinterested look. The Joker ignored her completely. He broke off what he'd been telling Crane mid-sentence and leered at the guards, snickering as they shifted uncomfortably. Carly watched the guards for a moment, until a bored voice caught her attention. "You're twitching."

She turned back to Crane, who looked pointedly at the hand that dangled at her side. She followed his gaze. Her fingers _were_ twitching, tapping into each other and tracing shapes on her dull orange jumpsuit. She watched them in fascination for a moment. Then she turned her face back up to Crane with a winning smile. "We're in an asylum," she informed him mildly.

"Not everyone here _twitches_," he replied slowly and deliberately, interlocking his hands and placing them professionally on his lap. "_I_ don't...twitch. The fact that you do indicates either a mental disorder or excess energy. If the former case is true..."

"Doc?"

He met her eyes sharply at the interruption. "Yes?"

"Are you bored or something?"

He grinned bitterly and his eyes trailed away again. "_Insanely_."

Just then, a chuckle made Carly look over at the Joker. She drew back quickly; he was leaning forward in his chair, inches away from her. Every nerve in her body instantly screamed PERSONAL SPACE, but even Carly wasn't stupid enough to react to the _Joker_. A glance to the side revealed that the guards by the door were watching him closely. "Didn't know you had it _in_ you, _Doc_," he said, smacking his lips. His eyes locked on hers. "A sense of _hu_-mor. Never knew...So what are _you_ here for, darlin'?"

She stared for a moment, thrown by his sudden change of topic. What the hell did he _mean_, anyways? "Here" in Arkham, or "here" in that chair? She was saved by Crane's quiet voice. "He's trying to intimidate you...'darling'." He crossed his legs eloquently and looked to the Joker, whose grin had flipped into a dramatic sad-clown frown.

"Aww, Doc, you keep ruining the _fun_," he lamented. He sighed and tilted his head back. "Besides, 'm just _chatting_ with the little lady." Carly and Crane looked at each other, and the Joker brought his head back up, saw them, and laughed languidly. "Well, now that we're all _chummy_..."

"Miss Fisher?"

Carly looked up. A blonde woman, wearing the signature pale orange nametag of an Arkham psychologist, was walking across the room. She paused with a frown when she recognized Carly's new acquaintance. "Miss Fisher, it's time for our session," the doctor said, finally looking back at Carly with worried eyes.

"Too bad," the Joker said, grinning with his too-wide smile as Carly stood obediently. "We were getting to be _such_ - _good_ - _friends_."

"Sorry to disappoint." She blinked, not quite sure of where she was going with this. It was an odd feeling, now knowing what to say. Finally, she shrugged. "Don't worry your pretty little heads." Crane snorted. "The quacks never take long." The female doctor frowned at this as she led Carly away, and the calculating gazes of both men followed them all the way out of the room.


	2. Session One

Alternate Titles: Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails; R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Written: October, 2008

Comments: Eh. Quinzel. I don't know how I feel about her; part of me wants to keep her, corrupt her (rather, have the Joker do it, kekeke), and another part says to kill her before she gets obnoxious. But, for now, she's here, so fuxxing deal with it.

Hurdy-hurr, Carly's a dog. For serious, I felt bad writing the ending of this, since my dog was literally in the room watching me. Poor J.C.

"Miss Fisher? Miss Fisher, are you ready to begin?"

Carly finally turned away from the imaginary staring contest she'd been having with the guards outside the two-way mirror. "Oh, yeah, sure," she told her psychiatrist, who had introduced herself several minutes ago as Dr. Harleen Quinzel. "I'm listening, I swear." Her fingers beat a bored rhythm on her Arkham uniform. She crossed one leg over the other and sat up primly on her uncomfortable wooden chair; the doctor, she noted, had been given a seat with a cushion. "So what are the charges this time?"

Quinzel frowned. "Charges? This isn't a prison, Miss Fisher..." Carly snorted and looked away with a grin, "...we're just here to talk about any problems you might be having."

"Spare me, Harl, Carly replied flippantly. It put a frown on Quinzel's face. "Fine, bad nickname. How 'bout Q, then? Very James Bond-ish." The other woman smiled a bit and added a note to her clipboard. Carly watched her with great interest, then re-crossed her legs.

"So, like I said, what've you got me down for? No, wait, let me guess." She tilted her head with a huge grin and shut her eyes, tracing her fingers through the air as if spelling out her words. "Definite schizophrenia, possible MPD or bipolarity due to intense personality swings, slight obsessive-compulsive behavior..." Her voice faded, then turned into laughter at the look on the doctor's face. "I've been through this before, Q, with many, _many_ other doctors," Carly explained. She twitched her nose. "Anything I missed?"

Quinzel sat up straighter and looked instantly more businesslike; she was eager to gain control of the conversation. "The pyromania." Carly raised her eyebrows. 'Bout time somebody caught on to that. "You've been arrested three times for arson, Miss Fisher, and..."

"Carly." Quinzel looked up at the interruption. Carly was watching her with her head tilted once more. "It's Carly, not 'Miss Fisher'. Miss fisher," she continued with a hysterical giggle, "is my _husband_." She broke out in childish laughter. Quinzel waited until she was done, jotted down a few notes, then set her clipboard on the table between them.

"You seem to know so much about your conditions, Carly. Why don't _you_ lead the discussion?" she suggested, smoothing her skirt with professional grace. Carly grimaced and blew out a sigh, leaning her chair back on two legs and lacing her arms behind her back. So the good doc wanted to play some games. Fine. Carly would play along, like the good little puppy she was.

Puppy. Carly giggled, imagining herself with ears and a tail. Maybe, if she begged enough, Quinzel would give her a treat. She barely contained a bark of laughter (again, with the dogs!), then focused back on the subject at hand.

She closed her eyes with a dramatic sigh, as if in pain. "Well, doc, to tell the truth..." She latched on to the first thing she could think of. "I think I'm this way because of my _dog_. Poor little Maxie; he was so cold in the winter, and my mommy wouldn't let him inside with all his _fleas_..." She languidly scratched her neck and looked up at Quinzel with enormous, weepy eyes. "All I wanted was to keep the poor guy warm. And his fur was so darn _flammable_..."

She dissolved into tears and wept heavily for a few moments before peeking up through her lashes at Quinzel. The woman was staring at her skeptically.

"_What?_"

Quinzel didn't respond. Carly finally grinned and leaned forward in her chair, placing her elbows on the table and tucking her wet cheeks into her hands.

"Well, come on, _Doc_, you couldn't've honestly thought it'd be that easy." Carly's voice was friendly, confidential. "You can't just say 'bark' and I'll start yapping." She leaned back again and inspected the doctor. "You're new here."

"An intern, actually," Quinzel replied in a flat tone.

There was a moment of silence, and Carly began wiping the semi-dried tears off of her face. "Pretty good trick, though, huh?" she said with a nervous smile. She didn't trust Quinzel's sudden silence. Usually, silence meant that an army of guards were about to come in and wrestle her off to an shock therapy session. As medieval as Arkham's methods were, they were also effective. "I mean, I ought to go into _theater_, or somethin'..."

"I get the feeling you don't respect me, Carly."

Carly sighed in relief. _That_ was all? "Oh, no, I respect you _lots_," she replied promptly and earnestly, like a schoolgirl looking for praise. "I respect you so much it's just _killing_ m-..."

"No, you don't," Quinzel interrupted her. She watched Carly with sharp eyes - the younger woman squirmed. "You respect my power, my...influence over what happens to you. But you don't respect _me_. Doctor Harleen Quinzel."

Carly matched the frankness in Quinzel's tone. "See, the 'Doctor' part is what I have trouble with," she replied, again kicking back her chair. "In my oh-so-_extensive_ experience, doctors are sort of numero uno on the 'Do Not Trust EVER' list. You're always..._manipulating_. Prodding poking, disturbing stuff that you've got no right to disturb. An' it's not 'cause you _care_, God, no..." She paused and met Quinzel's clear blue gaze. "It's because if you do it enough, there's a nice, fat paycheck waiting for you at the end of it."

There was another long silence, during which the two eyed each other. Then Quinzel sighed and seemed to sort of collapse in on herself. "Listen, Carly, I don't want to be that kind of doctor. I've seen them, and...well, it's made me wish I wasn't in this profession. Can you trust that I won't be that kind of doctor?"

Trust her? About as far as she could _throw_ her. Carly squinted at Quinzel, then grinned. Actually, she could probably throw her a _lot_ farther than she could trust her, considering the doc was so petite and all. But it _might_ be better to brown-nose a bit at this point. "Sure, Q," she finally replied witha winning smile. "You're the real deal. We all done?"

"For now." Quinzel nodded with a relieved sigh. Carly almost felt bad for lying. She snorted. That was a big "almost". "I'm tired, and I'm sure you are, too," the doctor said, standing up. She checked her watch. "Rec time's over now, so you can just head back to your room." The door's electronic lock buzzed open, and Carly's escorts entered the room with handcuffs. Not all of the crazies had to be carted around under lock and key, but Carly had a bit of a bad record. Well, it wasn't _her_ damn fault that one guard liked to carry his cigarette lighter in his pocket.

Once Carly was secured and ready to go, she paused at the door. She turned back to Quinzel with an innocent smile.

"Oh, and I wasn't lying about my dog," she said pleasantly. The door shut behind her on Quinzel's horrified expression.


	3. Wild Card

Alternate Titles: Joker's Wild

Written: October 2008

Comments: Dashed this out like the BAJEEZUS.

Poor lil' Carly, all alone in the midst of all of this. Don't feel bad for her. Seriously. I hate 'er. I'm going to fuck this girl up so bad she won't know which direction is up. Don't…take that literally, please.

D:

The other crazies liked to form little societies. Gangs, if you will. They were always trying to intimidate each other, beating up on each other, _killing_ each other. Nobody really cared when someone wound up dead, of course, since it just meant one less mouth to feed.

It was _really_ hard to forget that this was Arkham.

Carly loved watching these little groups, circling around each other like hyenas, constantly looking for opportunities to hurt someone. She stayed the heck out of it. She didn't have any friends at Arkham, since she liked to think that she'd get out eventually.

The only downside of it all? She was a loner. Which made her an automatic target.

Showers were the worst time. Twenty women went into the huge, tiled room at a time. There were no individual stalls, only spigots set into the walls. Carly did her best to ignore the muttering behind her, opting instead to shampoo her hair and begin her usual singing routine. Maybe they'd leave her to her showtunes. Maybe the footsteps coming up menacingly behind her were just the other women looking to borrow some soap. She sang a little louder, but was silenced when someone grabbed her by her hair and slammed her face into the tiled wall.

Unsurprisingly, the patchy bruises across her eye and cheekbone went unnoticed at the next afternoon's rec time.

She sat at her usual table, intent on the game of Go Fish she'd set up. As one of the more sane inmates, it was often up to her to organize activities. "No, come on, I've explained this like _fifty times_." She scowled at the twitchy, wide-eyed woman across from her. "The jokers are _wild cards._ You can use them for whatever you want." The woman shook her head and mumbled something. Carly grabbed her cards and tossed them into the pile. "Fine. Don't play. Your turn, Eddie," she told the redhead next to her. He plucked a card from his hand, and she began humming.

A low, threatening voice behind her interrupted her. "Get up, Fisher." Carly turned to find the same woman who'd given her the beating the night before. She stood up nervously. The woman looked her over, grinning at the purple bruises and blotchy red swelling of her cheek. "Guess you didn't learn your lesson," she said.

Carly frowned and said nothing. She sneaked a glance at the guards; they were busy _chatting_, the useless thugs. She looked back in time to see the fist coming towards her jaw. She stumbled back at contact, grabbing her aching mouth. "We don't _like_ your goddamn singing. So shut…up."

"I can do whatever the fuck I want," she replied venomously, throwing a punch that missed miserably. The guards still hadn't noticed. She felt someone pin her arms behind her back; whoever it was refused to let her go, no matter how much she fought. "I'll break _your_ fucking jaw, bitch, I swear to God I will!" The other woman was suddenly backing off, staring with wide eyes at the person restraining Carly. The guards finally looked up and began walking over quickly.

"Hey, back off!" one of them shouted, and Carly felt whoever was behind her lean down and breathe into her ear.

"_Oops._"

She jerked away as the Joker released her wrists. "I don't need any fucking _help_," she spat, rubbing her wrists disgustedly and turning back to the card game. The room was already going back to normal; the guards walked back to the door with wary eyes on the Joker, Carly's attacker had returned silently to her group, and conversations were beginning again.

Carly very carefully ignored the Joker as he rejoined Crane and instantly began chatting animatedly with him. She caught Crane's eye for only a moment and looked away at the smug grin on the man's face. She focused back on her card game. She was winning; she finally threw down her last two cards with a grin. The other players grumbled and handed in their cards for the next game.

Then there was a loud crash.

Carly looked up, dropping the deck of cards to the floor in shock. The guards were racing across the room. The Joker, with a look of happy concentration on his face, was slamming a woman's head repeatedly into the concrete wall of the room. The guards grabbed his arms and yanked him away from the woman. She whimpered and scooted away from him pathetically; Carly realized that it was the same woman who'd been bothering her earlier. She looked over to where Crane was sitting alone. He was watching her, eyebrows raised in a half-surprised, half-knowing expression.

She avoided his gaze and watched the Joker being dragged out of the rec room. All around her, the cards that she'd dropped fluttered slowly to the ground.


	4. Catalyst

Alternate Titles: Flash Fire

Written: October 5-6, 2008

Comments: HAAAHAHA. And so the crazyfaceness begins.

Bet y'all thought she was just an innocent lil' girl, huh?

Huh.

-cackles and plots-

"Carly. Carly, come on, talk to me." Quinzel's voice was just too _sweet_, Carly decided, for a psychiatrist. She was back in her uncomfortable chair in that uncomfortable room, trying desperately not to think the uncomfortable thoughts whirling around her head like a tornado, picking up all those things lurking at the edges of her mind and sending them fluttering around her like playing cards…

She jerked back and Quinzel stood and walked over to her. Carly's eyes skittered the other way and she silently shrank back into her chair to avoid the doctor's comforting touch. Quinzel's hand wavered, outstretched, for a moment. Then she withdrew it with a sigh and returned to her own seat.

"Carly, listen," she said. Carly wondered why she was always saying that – _listen._ What the fuck _else_ was she supposed to be listening to? The high-pitched squeal that the outdated ceiling lights emitted? The guards shuffling their feet out in the hallway? That sickening, dull thud that the woman's head had made over and over when it hit the rec room wall? Carly whimpered.

Quinzel leaned forward in her seat. She continued more earnestly, a strong hint of concern that Carly did _not_ appreciate beginning to play about her tone. "We need to talk about this. What happened?" Given no response, she pressed further. "Where did you get those bruises?"

Carly finally giggled; her eyes darted to the doctor and pinned her to her seat with their burning intensity. She grinned. "No, no, y'see," she said, waggling a shaking finger at the woman, "you're _definitely_ new here. 'Cause…'cause you're not supposed to ask that." When Quinzel opened her mouth, Carly cut her off. "I tripped. I tripped, 'kay, and I fell into my bed and was stupid. _Okay?_" Somewhere during her explanation, her tone had taken on a savage, angry edge. Quinzel nodded slowly, and Carly relaxed in her seat. That would be it. No more questions.

But Quinzel was a psychiatrist, of course, which meant she was more tenacious than a bulldog.

"What happened in the rec room, then, with you and Miss Charleston," she asked, naming Carly's attacker, "and Mr. J? I saw you sitting with him and Dr. Crane yesterday…"

"Mr. J?" Carly interrupted, curious in spite of herself.

"Well, we couldn't very well call him 'Joker'," Quinzel explained curtly. "But that's beside the point. Why…"

"I don't fucking know, okay?" Carly frowned darkly; that was _enough_. "Am I supposed to know how every psycho's brain works in here? _You're_ the fucking psychologist. Go ask him yourself."

"I plan to, during our next session," Quinzel replied calmly. Carly raised her eyebrows. An intern had been assigned to the Joker? Were the people who ran this place _crazy_?

She thought of Crane and the edges of her mouth quirked up in an almost-smile.

Quinzel's voice brought her back to reality. "We need to talk about this."

"About what?"

"You know perfectly well _what_."

"No idea what you're talking about."

"You don't know…?"

"Ah-nope."

"_Car_-ly," Quinzel said in a far too familiar, exasperated tone, and suddenly the room was dissolving into lighters and fire and lollipops and she was falling, falling, and she heard Quinzel call her name, then yell for the guards, but then everything went black.

"Car_-ly."_

_Flicker pulled the blue-raspberry sucker from her mouth with a sharp smack of her lips. She readjusted the phone held to her ear by her shoulder, and inspected the row of supplies arranged on the bed in front of her. She reached down and picked up a syringe, then held it up to the light to make sure it was clean. "Yes, mummy-dear?" she finally answered._

_Her mother sighed on the other end of the phone, and Flicker snickered in delight. It was so easy to irritate these _uptight_ people, with all of their silly mannerisms and social rules and _order_. "Your dad and I just want to talk to you. You could come home for just a few days, and we could work everything out…"_

"_Good one, mumsy," Flicker replied, drawing a measured amount of clear liquid into the syringe. "Of course I want to come home. Thanks for suggesting it. I'll just pack up my fucking bags and leave right now."_

"_Carly, I don't want to fight about this…"_

"_Oh, but I _do_," Flicker replied, grinning. Her mom was starting to sound tired; she pressed her advantage as she wrapped a tourniquet around her upper arm. Well, it served her right for calling Flicker by the wrong name. She'd humor the woman, as usual. "Let's _talk_. That's all you ever want to do, right?" She paused a moment to smack the crook of her arm a few times, then picked the syringe up again and spun it around whimsically. "So let's _talk_. Talking will just solve _everything_, easy-peasy lemon-squeezie."_

"_Listen, Carly, your dad and I can't take much more of this ridiculous _attitude_ from you," her mom said, taking on a more angry tone. "You've got to start behaving; you're messing up your entire life, with all these awful friends of yours. We've been hearing things. Those guys you hang out with _steal_. They steal, and I've even heard that they've committed arson. And what about the drugs? I know about them, Carly. Carly? Are you even listening to me, Carly?"_

_But Flicker was gone, gone, gone, drifting off on waves of lazy pleasure as her mother shouted at her through the phone. It dropped to the floor, and she slumped back onto the bed, slinging one arm happily over her eyes. The syringe fell to the ground next to the bed with a muffled clatter, and Flicker watched, fascinated, as a field of black settled itself over her eyes._


	5. Infirm

The care unit beds were _much_ more comfortable than the bunks the inmates usually stayed in.

Carly spent the first few hours after she woke up pondering this fact. She wasn't sure if she wanted to be mad or amused about it, so eventually she turned to memorizing the patterns on the ceiling tiles. Half of them looked like little fires, sparkling and flickering in the dim Arkham light. Then again, maybe it was just the _lights _themselves that were flickering.

The other half almost reminded her of corpses.

Almost.

She was visited several times by a doctor who seemed to think it was his duty to make her feel loved. Then again, that's what people sort of _did_ in this place: they treated you like abused puppies, and then expected you to roll over when they wanted you to.

Funny how Carly always ended up comparing herself to a dog.

Regardless of the doctor's attitude towards her, he was useful for information. Carly gathered that she'd passed out during her second session with Dr. Quinzel. Her doctor wanted to know why. Unfortunately for them, she didn't have any answers. She'd felt nauseous and panicked and probably had head injuries from the fight, and she'd blacked out. That was it.

But that wasn't "it", and that was the problem. Carly blew out a sigh and dully watched the quietly beeping heart rate machine she was hooked up to. What the hell had that little dream been about? She hadn't thought about her parents in years, and she sure as hell wasn't homesick. She grunted and turned over onto her side. Instantly, an aide appeared at her bedside. "Please don't turn over, Miss Fisher, you need to relax."

"_Carly_," she muttered in reply as the lady walked away. Carly glared for a moment, then settled onto her back once more. Relax? What the fuck did they think she was _doing_?

She snarled at the next nurse to check her IV. Unfortunately, the woman glared impassively at her and kicked the bed for good measure, sending a shooting pain through Carly's head. Now what was that…? She nervously raised her hand to her head, but the pain forced her arm back down with a groan of discomfort. She was hurt, _apparently_. And it was probably some pretty serious head trauma from being beaten in the showers. A grin slowly spread itself across her face. She'd still stood up to the Joker, even with cranial injuries, maybe even a broken rib or two.

She was still one badass bitch, even after all these years.

She started giggling at this revelation, then laughing outright. Soon enough, she was cackling hysterically, face turned to the side and pressing into her pillow, and then she was coughing, and there was blood on her pillow, and a doctor rushed to her bed and said something, and…

Black.

And then there was light again.

Only later would the doctors tell her that she'd been out for three full days before she was considered healthy enough to return to her cell, that she'd suffered internal bleeding and head trauma from the beating administered to her in the showers.

Only later would she learn that Missy Charleston was in the intensive care unit due to head injuries. And that the Joker had been placed in solitary confinement for a week. And that, every day, he'd asked how she was doing.

So when she returned to the rec room on her fourth day after what she'd begun to think of as The Incident, she hesitated at the door until she was sure the Joker was nowhere in the room. She ignored the hushed muttering coming from the other inmates as the guards directed her in with a shove (a more gentle shove, granted, than the ones they usually gave her, but this was _Arkham_). She moved to take a seat at her usual table, but was stopped by the sight that greeted her there.

Her usual friends, or as close to friends as you could get in a place like this, were bent low over the table, talking to each other in undertones. They looked up when she approached the table, and as if they'd planned it, all scooted their chairs closer together.

This felt like high school. She stared at the table for a moment, watching the men and women who huddled like frightened lambs with glares directed at her, then sighed and turned away. So she wouldn't get her usual spot. That wasn't a problem, she'd just sit somewhere else. She could be satisfied with that…

Until she noticed that the only seat not taken was the one next to Dr. Crane, the one usually taken by hers truly.

She glanced back at the other side of the room. There wasn't a chance she could go there. But she couldn't sit _here_, either…She hesitated for almost a full minute, fully aware of Crane's piercing gaze on her, then took a seat with a fierce scowl.

Rec time lasted thirty minutes. She'd entered the room late. Only fifteen minutes to go.

She wouldn't be the first to speak. She _wouldn't_. If he had something to say, he ought to just spit it out, just say…

"How did you do it?"

Carly winced, kept her eyes on the wall where they were painfully fixed. "Do what?"

"Tame the wild beast." Crane tutted with a sneer at her confused, somewhat alarmed look. "How did you do it? The one man in Gotham who claims his allegiance to no man…Or woman, as it were." He smirked. "It's absolutely baffling."

"What some psycho does with his free time doesn't make a _bit_ of difference to…"

"People," he continued, ignoring her angry interruption, "are coerced by only two things: fear and greed. Simple, basic human nature. So how did you pay him off? That money from your card game the other day? Or did you offer a little…" He quirked an eyebrow condescendingly. "_Something extra_? An exchange of _services_…?"

She stood up, throwing the folding chair back onto the floor with a clatter. Curious eyes turned their way. Carly's cheeks flamed red. "I'm no whore," she hissed venomously, putting her face directly in Crane's. The man's cool look didn't change. "I don't fucking _know_ why some bastard tried to help me out." They stared at one another for a long moment. Her gaze dropped first. "Maybe he just hadn't gotten his violence fix in a while."

"Sarcasm aside, you may be right." Carly glanced up at Crane. "The man shows the distinct signs of your typical sociopath, perhaps a bit of schizophrenia, but also general aggressive tendencies." The diagnosis was given in the blink of an eye, and delivered with the cold calculation of a doctor. Crane certainly hadn't lost his touch. "The disorders, unlike in some cases, certainly aren't passive." He sighed, pushing a dark lock of hair behind his ear. "But you probably have no idea what I'm talking about."

Carly's nose twitched in distaste. He was an arrogant asshole. What else was new? "I'm not _stupid_, I get it," she muttered. _Lies, lies, lies…_She bent over to retrieve her chair. As she rearranged it neatly, she added, "Whatever. I'm no psychologist."

"Carly!" And speaking of psychologists…Quinzel trotted over to where Carly stood. "It's time for our session, Miss Fi-"

Carly opened her mouth, but Quinzel corrected herself immediately. "Carly. I'm sorry." She started to turn away, but paused with a confused look at Crane. "Ah. Friend of yours…?"

"Hell no," Carly asserted.

"In a way," Crane said at exactly the same time.

There was an awkward pause. Then Crane carefully inspected his nails. "You know, Dr. Quinzel, I've been meaning to ask. I know my license was revoked, so I can not diagnose patients officially, but…" He arched a slim eyebrow. "I think it would be beneficial for my treatment…_both_ of our treatment, if I were to have some sessions with Ms. Fisher."

Carly looked drop-jawed at Crane, ignoring the fact that he somehow knew her name. Quinzel, meanwhile, frowned. "Absolutely not."

Crane sighed. "Another doctor could be present, if that is your concern."

"An _official_ doctor."

His mouth twitched, and fury flashed in his eyes for a split second (if at all; Carly may have imagined it), but he nodded. "Yes, an official doctor." Quinzel stared off into space, thinking. "I have gathered some valuable insights that might be of use to you. And it's not like I intend to _harm_ Ms. Fisher in any way. What good would that do me?"

"Just a second, don't _I_ get a say in this?" Carly demanded, looking only to Quinzel.

The doctor sighed and rubbed her temples. "Yes, you do, but the administration will have to consider it, first." She turned to Crane. "This is _highly_ irregular. I don't have to tell you that. Don't get your hopes up." He nodded graciously.

Then he smiled at Carly. "Think about what I said. Men like _him_ don't help someone for nothing." The language, purposefully vague, made Quinzel frown again. "He'll expect recompense, I'll promise you that."

Carly opened her mouth for an angry retort, shut it, and walked away.


End file.
